


Interrogation

by pikachumaniac



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Threats of non-con, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 17:43:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15320793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac
Summary: When the first blow hits him, he tells himself it’s just like training, except he doesn’t get to hit back and Cor would never waste his breath on shouting stupid questions. They ask him about the Council’s inner workings, the security protocols, the king’s schedule, and a whole lot of other things, all the while raining punches and kicks on him. Seeing how they never seem to let up on either the questions or the beating, he’s not sure when the hell he’s supposed to be responding.Also it’s not like he knows any of the things they’re asking him about, which makes it easier to just grit his teeth and bear it.Of course, they wouldn’t be good interrogators if they kept using methods that don’t work, so it’s not that surprising when Ignis is dragged in.In which the Empire wants information that Gladio doesn’t have, but that doesn’t stop them from using the leverage that they have over him.





	Interrogation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [markofthemoros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/markofthemoros/gifts).



> This was originally posted on my Tumblr, but I’ve done some rewriting that hopefully improves it rather than just making it more tortured (ooh, bad pun).

When the first blow hits him, he tells himself it’s just like training, except he doesn’t get to hit back and Cor would never waste his breath on shouting stupid questions. They ask him about the Council’s inner workings, the security protocols, the king’s schedule, and a whole lot of other things, all the while raining punches and kicks on him. Seeing how they never seem to let up on either the questions or the beating, he’s not sure when the hell he’s supposed to be responding.

Also it’s not like he knows any of the things they’re asking him about, which makes it easier to just grit his teeth and bear it.

Of course, they wouldn’t be good interrogators if they kept using methods that don’t work, so it’s not that surprising when Ignis is dragged in. They’d been together shortly before the ambush, with Gladio wondering for the fourth or fortieth or four-hundredth time if he should just tell his friend how he’d really like to stick his tongue down that elegant throat, if he’d be into that. It’s probably a good thing he didn’t given their current situation, but it doesn’t stop him from being terrified when they push his friend-slash-unrequited-crush onto his knees.

Ignis looks cool and calm as always, like he’s prepared himself for this moment. Knowing him, he probably has a flowchart with color-coded text and footnotes outlining all the worst-case scenarios. But when they lock eyes, Gladio can see the slightest hint of worry there, and that’s when he knows they’re in way deeper trouble than he originally thought.

The worry is confirmed when an armored man comes strolling in, like they’re at some fancy restaurant instead of this shithole of a basement. Gladio may not be able to tell the pinched face of one politician from another, but he does know every Nif military commander, and his heart sinks. Most people think Caligo Ulldor is a joke, assuming that he earned his rank through scrimping and sycophancy, but he’s heard the stories of the man’s easy cruelty, the type that the Empire prizes. What Ulldor lacks in competence he makes up for through rank violence, and if he’s in charge of their interrogation, it’s not going to end well for either of them.

Ulldor looks from him to Iggy and back again, scowling like this is all beneath him. Like they’re beneath him.

“The ongoing negotiations with the Accordian ambassador,” he barks out, not really addressing either of them. “What are they planning, and how will it affect Lucis’s military plans.”

His demands are met by dead air, as both Gladio and Ignis stare at him in stony silence. Iggy, in particular, looks contemptuous, like he can’t believe this idiot actually managed to get his hands on them. But Gladio can see that it’s an act by the way those long fingers clench, seeking out the familiar weight of his daggers. Not that he’s stupid enough to try summoning them because the way his hands are tied, he’ll just end up losing a few digits. Between that and how they’d chained Gladio’s wrists directly to the wall, making it impossible to swing his greatsword even if he summoned it, it’s clear the bastards were prepared for them.

Prepared but not patient, and Ulldor’s face darkens. “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way,” he says, like that wasn’t his plan all along.

Gladio straightens, letting his shoulders roll back as he faces the brigadier general. He knows what’s going next; he might not know the answers to the questions they’ve been shouting at him, but they all know that Iggy does. He’s the one who has to go to all the meetings that Noct can’t (or _won’t_ , that lazy brat) attend. He’s not technically part of the inner circle, but he might as well be seeing how he’s always present as part of his duties as the prince’s advisor. It’s no accident that they were both taken when Gladio doesn’t know jack shit. The Nifs need leverage, something to use against Ignis, and he’s almost flattered that they’ve chosen him seeing how Iggy could hold out for a lot better. But that’s neither here nor there as he braces himself, mentally readying a taunt of how their best punches are nothing compared to the love taps Cor throws at him during training, and-

-and is completely caught off-guard when the strike sends Ignis crashing to the ground because that wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

Ignis’s expression mirrors his shock because he wasn’t expecting it either, but it’s quickly lost as the men surround him. Gladio lunges forward but gets nowhere, but he doesn’t stop trying even when the skin beneath the metal cuffs splits and bleeds. His pain is nothing compared to Iggy’s, as the men beat him with a sadistic glee. They’re not even bothering with questions now, which means that the only sound in the room is closed fists hitting a defenseless body over and over again because like hell will Ignis make a sound to acknowledge the torture being inflicted upon him.

But Gladio has never been as strong as Ignis, and when he hears the snap of a bone breaking, he can’t contain himself any longer. “Stop it,” he says because Ignis can’t ( _won’t_ ). “You’re _killing_ him.”

He doesn’t really expect them to stop because maybe that’s the point, but to his relief Ulldor raises a hand. It takes a while for the men to notice, too caught up in their violence, but they do stop. Eventually. And Ignis… gods, he looks terrible, battered and bloody and his breathing is harsh and even, his eyes unfocused and there is so much _blood_ and-

“Are you ready to talk?” Ulldor asks.

Gladio doesn’t look away from the mess of a person that Ignis is now. Talk. Talk about _what_? He doesn’t know the answers to their questions; that’s _Iggy_ , who they’ve beaten to a pulp, and what the hell are they doing? It’s not supposed to be like this, it’s supposed to be the other way around. He’s supposed to be the leverage, not Ignis. It’s what he was trained for, to be the Shield, to take the punches, to protect the people who do have the information that the Empire wants. But none of their questions are directed at Ignis; they’re all for him, and that means only one thing.

“I don’t have anything to talk about,” he replies, and the truth of it hurts, but not nearly as much as having to watch them torture Ignis right in front of him, knowing that there’s nothing he can do to stop them because he doesn’t have the information that they want.

“We’ll see about that,” Ulldor says, turning his attention to the advisor. Ignis hasn’t even managed to pull himself up, and he’s not able to do anything when a booted foot comes crashing down on his arm. Not even Iggy can stop himself from making a sound at that, and the sharp cry is like a stab to the heart. “But you may have a point about stopping things now. We can’t be too hasty about this, after all. We’ll be back later, to give you time to consider whether you might be more open to talking to save your comrade.”

He leaves without looking back, the men at his heel, but they don’t take Ignis. They leave him there instead, broken and bleeding and barely conscious, close enough for Gladio to see every wound but too far for him to do anything.

* * *

It’s both too long and too short, the time they’re left there on their own. Each second seems to last an eternity and a half, as all he can do is watch Ignis lying on the floor, his lean frame wracked by agonized shudders until it finally subsides into an uncontrollable shaking. He tries to speak, but what can he say? It’s not like he needs to ask Iggy how he is when the answer is so damn clear, and the advisor knows better than to believe false platitudes about how everything’s going to be alright. Best not to say anything, but while that’s the logical choice, he still feels like shit. That should be him on the ground, beaten and hurt, and while it’s not his fault that they’re in their respective positions, guilt isn’t exactly rational.

Especially right now, as the door opens with an ominous screech and Ulldor strides in. The Nif actually has the gall to grimace at the smell of blood, as if he wasn’t the cause of it.

“Are you ready to talk now?” he asks, and when neither of them answer – because neither of them _can_ , for very different reasons – two of the men haul Ignis up into a sitting position, paying no heed to his broken arm, before a third drives a fist into his stomach.

Things proceed a lot like the last time. They don’t ask questions, just proceed with the beating, which Ulldor oversees with feigned boredom except Gladio can see the amusement in his eyes as his men torture Ignis.

As for Ignis, well. Other than that one cry when Ulldor broke his arm, he hadn’t made another sound because he’s Ignis fucking Scientia, and he’s above that sort of human weakness. Except that Iggy, despite his relentless pursuit of a level of perfection never before attained by mankind, is still in fact human. Which means he feels every blow, every cut when one of the men pulls out a small knife (because bruises and the occasional snapped rib just aren’t enough), every ounce of pain they’re inflicting on him, and there’s only so much more of it that even he can take before-

Gladio doesn’t even want to think about what will happen then. And he doesn’t really need to either because at the rate things are going, he’s going to see it for himself.

He doesn’t try begging for Ignis’s sake this time. He knows it’ll lead to nowhere. The only thing he can do is watch, to bear witness to the torture. And even though he knows his mental anguish is nothing compared to what Iggy is _actually_ going through, he can barely stand it, watching his friend be hurt like this, knowing there is nothing he can do to stop it.

He has no idea how long it is, before they stop. It’s probably not as long as the last time given how far they’d already pushed him, but it’s definitely too much. Ignis looks close to dead, the skin beneath blood and mottled bruises pale and waxy, his wracking coughs splattering blood on the ground. Any more and there won’t be anything left to torture, which is why Ulldor calls off his dogs without Gladio even having to ask.

It’s horrifying, how reluctant some of the men are to back off. Iggy may act and occasionally dress like he’s old enough for a senior discount at Kenny’s, but he only turned eighteen two months back. The party had been a small affair because Ignis couldn’t abide anything grander on his account, and Gladio had spent the entire time watching the guy smile and laugh, content with being surrounded by those he loved and who loved him in return. That’s the person who’s on the ground now, barely conscious, and without the armor of his impeccable clothing and styling, he looks even younger than his age. But youth is obviously no deterrent to their brutality, given the blood on their knuckles and shoes.

“So?” Ulldor asks, finally remembering that this is supposed to be an interrogation, not just an exercise in cruelty. “How much longer do you intend to make him suffer for your silence?”

Gladio’s jaw tighten as he glares at the man. Another beating, another round of torture, but it hasn’t changed anything except hurt Ignis more. “You’re killing him, and for what?”

“He’ll survive,” is the dismissive reply. “And so will you, until I get what I want.”

Ulldor turns away, gesturing impatiently at a man who’s been lurking at the sidelines. Gladio isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this thin, scrawny man, wearing glasses rather like the ones that now lie in pieces besides Ignis’s broken body.

“Make sure he lives,” Ulldor orders as he leaves.

“Yes sir,” the man says.

Gladio stares at the man, recognizing the accent. “You’re from Galahd,” he says, as the man pulls out a potion. “Why are you helping the Empire?”

The man doesn’t reply. He also doesn’t break the bottle over Ignis’s battered form, instead pulling out the stopper and pouring out a few drops. The magic seeks out the worst of the wounds, getting to work healing broken bones and punctured lungs. Gladio keeps waiting for him to give Iggy the rest, to take away the pain that has been inflicted, but the man just watches as Ignis’s breath gets slightly steadier.

“I used to be a doctor,” the man says abruptly. “I was good at it too. But then I came here and was just a refugee. Didn’t matter what my experience was or what I was able to do. They just saw me as filth, and the only jobs they’d give me were the ones they didn’t want.”

“You think that justifies any of this?” he demands, jerking his head towards Ignis. “He’s Tenebraen, and deals with the shit of the nobility all the time, so why are you helping them hurt him?”

“Sacrifices have to be made,” the man replies amiably, before examining his patient with a critical eye.

For a moment, Gladio actually lets himself believe that his words have made a difference as the man lifts Ignis’s arm, the bone now healed but still covered in angry bruising. For a moment, he wants to believe that he has done something to help his friend.

“Too much,” the man mutters instead, and wrenches the arm out of its socket with practiced ease.

The scream that follows is wet with pain.

* * *

“I thought we’d try something different,” Ulldor announces, like he’s suggesting some new teamwork building exercise. One would never guess how angry he had been the last time he’d left, their session cut short when Ignis had passed out just a few minutes into the torture. Gladio doesn’t know what the bastard could have expected, given how they’ve been pushing Ignis to the brink, over and over again, only pulling him back at the last possible second to administer a few drops of potion, just enough to keep him alive and awake enough to hurt. But even Iggy isn’t immune to the stress and trauma of the constant push and pull, and maybe that’s why Ulldor has decided to hell with it because judging from the man’s expression, his newest plans don’t involve pushing Ignis over the edge so much as shoving him into the abyss.

“You don’t have to do this,” Gladio says, but that’s beside the point. By now, he’s not even sure why he’s bothering to protest. It’s as useless as his struggles to reach Ignis have been, although that hadn’t stopped him either, as demonstrated by how his wrists are now a raw and oozing mess.

“Are you going to tell me what I want to know?” Ulldor doesn’t even wait for a response, turning to the man who claims to have been a doctor.

His hazy memories of the Hippocratic Oath aside, the man is certainly good at what he does. To Gladio’s surprise, he gives Ignis a few more drops of potion than usual – not enough, still not _nearly_ enough – which means that Iggy’s eyes are almost clear and he looks a little more coherent, and it quickly becomes obvious that this is _not_ a good thing when two men pull him into a kneeling position before untying his wrists. Another gets in front of him, ripping the tattered remains of his shirt off him, and then the man is reaching for his pants, eliciting a startled, desperate gasp.

“No. _No._ ”

Gladio is pulling frantically at the cuffs again, no longer able to care about the possibility of permanent damage, but it’s as effective as Ignis’s attempts to wrench himself away from the groping hands. The men are laughing, but he can still hear Ignis’s soft, desperate distress. He can see the panic in those green eyes, unable to hide it any longer. And that is finally what is enough to send Gladio teetering over the edge too, and he yells, “Stop it! Shit, I don’t know anything! I’m not even on the Council, for fuck’s sake. I’m only allowed when the prince attends, and like hell he can be bothered to-”

He stops himself, but it’s too late. He doesn’t need to see Ulldor’s mouth stretching wide with malicious satisfaction to know he’s fucked up. He doesn’t need to see Ignis mouthing at him to stop, somehow still able to put duty before his own welfare despite the men preparing to stick their dicks in him.

“So that’s what this is about,” he says quietly. “You want dirt on the prince, is that it?”

“Only if you want to,” Ulldor says like he doesn’t care, but it’s impossible not to see the greed in his eyes. So maybe they’re not as stupid as he thought, maybe they did have reasons for what they were doing. Because him – heir to a family name so blue-blooded that the only thing that separated them from royalty was a crown and a bit less in-breeding – talking shit about Noct, revealing all of his weaknesses and worst secrets to the world (that he’s impossible to wake up, that he slacks during training, that he’s spoiled rotten and a brat, that he likes kittens, that he’s kind and has a good heart, that he’ll do anything for his friends)? They’ll spin it into their propaganda machines and wage psychological warfare, the one type of fighting they haven’t tried yet, although damn if they’re not effective at it if he’s to judge from present experience. Because if he doesn’t give in, Ignis will be the one to suffer, and all he’ll be able to do is stand by and watch.

“Gladio,” Ignis rasps because he knows what’s going on in that head of his, always does, always will. Because Ignis knows Gladio’s weaknesses. And he knows, despite Gladio being too chickatrice-shit to act on it, that _he’s_ his greatest weakness right now. “Don’t.”

He stares at Ignis, stripped naked and vulnerable and shaking not just from the cold and pain, but the fear of what they intend to do to him. And he thinks that it was almost easier before, when he thought he didn’t have the information they wanted. Now it turns out that he does, which means he can save Iggy from this. Except that he can’t. He _won’t_. Because he pledged his life to the throne years back, and when he did, it wasn’t just his mortal life he had sworn to give up. He would give up everything to protect Noct and the crown if that was what was required, and that includes Iggy, even if it means condemning him to the questionable mercy of these monsters.

And Ignis knows that about him already because it’s exactly what he would do too if their roles were reversed. Iggy doesn’t need to remind him of his duty, so why is he?

It’s hard not to look past the very real terror on his face, but if there’s one thing Gladio is good at, it’s seeing the real Ignis, not just the image he projects to the rest of the world. And what he sees now, which the other men don’t, is the stubborn line of his mouth, the restless tension of his shoulders, and the determination shining past the fear in his eyes.

Most of all, he notices that in their haste to humiliate Ignis, they’ve forgotten to bind his wrists again. It might not have mattered if Ignis was mostly dead, but they’ve also healed him more this time, so that they can enjoy their sick games.

It’s not an ideal situation. Ignis is still hurting, the so-called doctor’s ministrations only taking away the worst of the wounds. With the remaining injuries and the amount of pain he’s in, he’ll be slower than usual, which means he needs the element of surprise on his side. Even then, it’s a risk considering how many men there are. Ulldor’s armor also presents an additional challenge, meaning Ignis will have to be precise. It’s something Gladio would never have doubted him capable of under normal circumstances, but this isn’t exactly normal, not by a long shot.

But it’s the best chance they have, so they’ll just have to do what they can. Both of them.

“So what do you want to know exactly?” he says, trying to sound gruff but just a little desperate, like he’s ready to crack. It’s not that hard because he is desperate, just not for the reasons they think he is. “You want to know when he wakes up? You want to know what he’s like in training? You want to know his weaknesses?”

“If you’re willing,” Ulldor says. “Of course, if you’re not….”

His voice trails off, the implication more than there, but his attention is still on Gladio. Good.

“And you’ll stop hurting him,” Gladio replies, adding just the slightest waver to the last word. He’s never been one for acting, but some good has to come from Iris making him pretend to be Captured Princess #3 in her elaborate plays that always seemed to involve someone getting kidnapped. “You’ll let us go?”

“I’m sure something can be arranged,” Ulldor nods, eager to agree to anything to get what he wants. Obviously his promises are worth less than anak shit, which can at least be used for fertilizer. “As long as what you give us is worth something, of course.”

“Sure.” It’s hard not to look at Ignis, to see how much more time he needs to steel himself, but he has to keep his attention on the brigadier general to ensure everyone’s attention is off the advisor. “But this… this really doesn’t seem like your style, does it? You’re a warrior, not a psychiatrist. Isn’t this beneath you?”

“I do what the Empire requires of me,” Ulldor replies, but he’s obviously hit a sore spot. And if there’s one thing that most everyone has a weakness to, it’s feeling underappreciated, something that has spawned a thousand complaints to higher-ups and Human Resources and apparently the enemy as well, as the brigadier general mutters, “Sending me here to interrogate two teenagers though… this humiliation has Flueret’s fingerprints all over it. I should be out in battle, not _babysitting_ , and-”

Distracted by his self-pity, Ulldor never even notices the dagger until it’s in his throat, and maybe not even then.

Ignis doesn’t bother with self-praise at his deadly aim, his attention already on the men behind him. They’re still in shock over how quickly he had pulled his arms out of their grasp, and he guts the one on the left before they can react. His fingers twist, and the dagger that had been occupying Ulldor’s neck appears in his right hand, which he uses to slice through the other man’s throat. Then he’s kicking out at the man who stripped him with more force than strictly necessary, and he probably didn’t need to bury both blades into his chest but Gladio thinks he’s entitled.

It’s with brutal efficiency that Ignis dispatches the remaining men. He’s definitely not as fast as he usually is, and he must still be in so much pain, but the heady adrenaline of fear and desperation can make the human body perform miracles, although not for long. It’s not really his style either, which Gladio tends to associate with a quicksilver elegance and the occasional ridiculous backflip; no, it’s like watching a butcher at work. And by the time a dagger lands in the back of the man who used to be a doctor, the weapon quivering as the newly-minted corpse topples to the ground, Ignis is fairly painted with blood, most of it not his own for a change.

He slides to his knees, panting, the daggers falling to the ground as he runs out of the strength to hold them. He looks like he’s going to lose consciousness again, and Gladio isn’t entirely sure he’ll wake up again if he does, so he says softly, “Iggy.”

Ignis turns to him, looking so utterly exhausted that he almost seems more helpless than before.

He gestures as best as he can at the refugee. “Check him first,” he instructs, trying to sound both commanding and comforting. “For the potion.”

For a long time, Ignis just continues to stare at him, like he’s having trouble understanding. But finally he starts to move, and Gladio hates how he practically has to crawl towards the corpse. His fingers slip through the bloody clothing, but eventually comes up with the potion. Thankfully the bottle didn’t break in the fall, and Ignis practically gasps in relief as he breaks the glass, the magic within quickly getting to work on his injuries. But there’s still too many wounds left, whether because what remains of the potion isn’t enough or because it’s been too long, and Gladio knows they’re going to have to get him to medical sooner rather than later.

“Ulldor,” he says next. “He should have the key.”

“I know,” Ignis replies irritably, but the words lack their usual snap. Although he no longer has to crawl, his movements are painfully slow as he staggers over to the brigadier general’s body. It doesn’t take him too long to find a key, and he somehow even has the strength to make it back to Gladio and unlock the cuffs on his wrists, right before his eyes roll back and he collapses.

This time, at least, Gladio is finally close enough to catch him.

* * *

Gladio is there when Ignis wakes up. Not that he ever left, and none of the medical staff were suicidal enough to even try to make him go.

“Hey,” he says as green eyes flutter open. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” Ignis replies bluntly, not in the mood to even try to be diplomatic. Or maybe he knows there’s no point in pretending he’s fine because Gladio was _there_ throughout it all, so any attempts at claiming otherwise are doomed from the start. Or maybe, just maybe, Ignis trusts him enough to not have to pretend, but that might just be wishful thinking. “How much longer do I have to be here?”

Gladio rolls his eyes, trying not to sigh. “You’re not going anywhere, Iggy.” Not that he’s surprised that this is the first thing the advisor wants to know. Hell, he’s probably already calculating how much coffee he’ll need to ingest to make up for the time he’ll be out of work because Astrals forbid he take a breather after being _tortured_. “And don’t bother trying to call your assistant to bring you work to do in the meantime. The king made us all swear not to let you anywhere near so much as a dry cleaner receipt.”

“The king was here?” Gladio isn’t sure if Ignis is appalled by the thought of the king seeing him like this, or the prospect of not being allowed to work for the foreseeable future.

“Of course he was. Everyone was worried about you.” And for good reason too. Although the doctors had assured them by now that Ignis would make a full recovery, it hadn’t always been so clear. On top of the wounds that hadn’t been healed in time were the ones that had because the bastard who used to a doctor hadn’t bothered to do things properly – probably hadn’t seen the point, since Ulldor was going to kill them as soon as he got what he wanted. They’d had to re-break the bones to set them correctly, and even unconscious and pumped full of drugs, Ignis had thrashed from the pain of it all. They’d had to hold him down, a sight that nearly caused Gladio to lose it because it was too much like watching those men holding Iggy down so that they could beat him. It was only his father’s steady hand on his shoulder and Iris’s iron grip on his arm that had calmed him, as well as the fact that the last thing he needed was to get thrown out for causing a scene when he needed to be here. For this. “ _I_ was worried about you.”

“Come now, there’s no need for dramatics,” Ignis replies lightly, except he won’t quite look Gladio in the eye.

“Dramatics?”  Gladio bites back. “Iggy, you nearly _died_.”

“And?” Ignis sinks back into the bed, looking as tired as he had after he’d killed all those men. “We both knew this was a possibility when we swore our oaths to Noct.”

“Well, yeah,” he acknowledges. “But it’s a hell of a lot different when I’m watching you bleed out in front of me.”

He half-expects Ignis to get angry with him, to accuse him of thinking him weak when that is the absolute last thing he’d ever think, especially after seeing the guy endure things that would break most people. Instead, Ignis says softly, “We can’t.”

It takes him a moment to realize what Iggy is _saying_ , and then he doesn’t know what to think. On one hand, it’s a tacit admission that his feelings are not entirely one-sided, and isn’t that what he always wanted? But on the other, Ignis is shutting this down before they can even see where it goes, and he doesn’t understand why that is. It’s hard to keep himself calm, to not demand the explanation he so desperately wants, but this is Ignis and this is a conversation that they need to be having, not an interrogation. “Why not?”

Ignis bites his lip, a nervous tic that he’d been trying to get rid of for the last three years, ever since some asshole Councilmember had told him it wasn’t befitting for the prince’s advisor. He’d been successful for the most part, but it rears its ugly head when things become too stressful, and these past few days easily qualify as that. Gladio had never minded it much though, and he tries not to be distracted by how it makes Ignis’s lip that much redder (and kissable).

“You know why,” Ignis says, but it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself. “You saw what happened. We aren’t even together and they still used us against each other. Can you imagine what would happen if we actually were…?”

His voice trails off as he looks away, like he doesn’t want to say it out loud because he’s trying to give up the hope of it, to avoid getting too hurt by it. But Gladio isn’t willing to give this up so easily, and he shifts himself closer.

“Yeah, I can,” he replies. “Because what happened was that neither of us gave in. We put our duty first before ourselves and each other, and if we ever end up in that situation again, the same thing will happen then too, whether or not we do this.”

“It’ll be different if we take the next step.”

“How?” He reaches a hand over to Ignis’s cheek, careful to keep his touch gentle because a dark bruise still lingers there. “In case you haven’t noticed, I already like you a lot, Iggy. I know I haven’t exactly been subtle about it-”

“You most certainly have not.”

He shoots Ignis a mock glare, causing the other man to chuckle faintly but fall silent. “Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but it wasn’t like it was easy seeing you be tortured this time either. Whether or not we act on this, it’s always going to hurt every time something happens to you, but if I have to let it happen to protect Noct… well, I’d expect you to do the same damn thing. We both know what we signed up for. But just because we can’t put each other before Noct doesn’t mean we can’t have each other at all.”

“Gladio…” Ignis sighs, but he’s not pulling away.

He takes in a deep breath, “I nearly saw you die, Iggy. And that just made one thing clear to me. I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to pretend that I don’t have feelings for you when I do. And I don’t want to regret missing my chance to have something with you, now that I’ve already nearly lost you once.”

Hands rest lightly on his wrists, which are covered in thick bandages from his struggles to break free. To reach Ignis. He doesn’t have to struggle to reach him any longer though because Iggy is right in front of him now, even if his eyes are fixated on Gladio’s own wounds.

“Do you know what I was thinking the entire time?” Ignis whispers. “I was thinking about how much I hated that you were seeing me like that. I was thinking about how much I hated seeing _you_ like that. And-” he pauses, finally looking up to stare at him straight in the eyes. “I hated that I might die without ever telling you that I rather like you too.”

He feels his heart skip a beat, and his mouth is dry as he asks, “What are you saying?”

Ignis smiles. It’s a little crooked, on account of his face having recently been beaten to a pulp, but it’s still the most beautiful thing Gladio has ever seen in his life.

“I’m saying that you should probably kiss me already, so that neither of us have to worry about having any more regrets.”

Gladio gladly obliges.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! For shorter ficlets, deleted scenes, and babbling about writing (or lack thereof), I can be found on [tumblr](http://pikachumaniac.tumblr.com/).


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